


Push and Pull

by Scrunyuns



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: And violence, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mentions of attempted rape, and ableism, but wrench and numbers are just really cute w each other don't you worry, graphic depictions of sexual abuse, homophobic and racist slurs, just a fuckload of machismo bs really, plus some sex, prison fic, sorry :-(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 06:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3926326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrunyuns/pseuds/Scrunyuns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They meet in prison. As you do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Protection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [periken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/periken/gifts), [391780 (goblinparty)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goblinparty/gifts), [ithinkwehitametaphor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ithinkwehitametaphor/gifts), [sotherby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sotherby/gifts), [maskedbandit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maskedbandit/gifts), [Quankk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quankk/gifts).



> I'm gifting this work to everyone who liked my tumblr post about this :-)

It takes Numbers a whole day before he finally realizes that his new cellmate is deaf.

It's not like either of them had really made an effort to small talk when he'd first arrived; as that tall drink of water had walked in, Numbers had spared him no more than a brief glance before going back to his book. In prison, pleasantries are a sign of weakness, and Numbers has never been much for pleasantries anyway.

The big guy hadn't said a word, either, just crawled into his bunk and left him alone. Numbers figures he isn't the talkative type, which he's _very_ thankful for, and that he had just been relieved to find the top bunk free.

Now, that's a phenomenon Numbers has never quite understood. Everyone wants that goddamn top bunk. _A symbol of dominance, maybe?_ Numbers ponders. It might appeal to the simian sensibilities of some of the men in here, but if you look at it from a logical viewpoint it doesn't make a whole lot of sense; what if you roll off it in the middle of the night and smash your face in? And if the guy in the bottom bunk farts, that shit will waft upwards. _Thanks, but no thanks._

That evening he got to enjoy complete silence - his previous cellmate, God rest his soul, had been an awfully chatty guy - and it had almost seemed to Numbers as if he was alone in that cell. He'd fallen asleep early and slept all through the night, no one waking him up to complain about his snoring.

It's only when the big guy comes up to him the next day with a notepad that it all starts to make sense.

'I need protection' it reads.

At first Numbers thinks it's just a precaution, which strikes him as being overly paranoid. _Typical first-timers._

"Why?" Numbers asks as he considers the pad. "You're a big guy, you can take care of yourself."

His cellmate looks exasperated, gesturing to his ears.

"What, are you deaf or something?"

The big guy rolls his eyes as he hastily scribbles something down. He thrusts the pad in Number's face.

'YES. ARE YOU A MORON OR SOMETHING?'

Numbers starts to chuckle, which only seems to infuriate his cellmate further. The big guy raises one of his massive fists, ready to bash his skull in.

"Wait, wait, stop!" Numbers gasps in between laughs, shielding himself from the assault with his hands. "I'm not laughing at you, I'm laughing at myself."

The hulk seems to calm down slightly at that, his hovering fist finally dropping to his side.

"So you're deaf, huh," Numbers says, clearing his throat as he wills himself to stop laughing, and tries not to slur his words too much. "But you can read lips?"

His cellmate responds with a flat palm turning side to side, the universal sign for 'so-so'.

"And you want protection."

He nods fervently.

Numbers can't blame him; he'd seen a group of guys trying to kick his ass at breakfast that same day. Not that they succeeded, mind you, but perhaps next time he won't be so lucky. Probably not. Disabled guys like him are always a target in here, even guys his size, even if he packs a punch. He's easy to ambush. And, Numbers has to admit, the guy's attractive... and young. Never a good combo in a place like this.

Numbers has first-hand experience with that sort of thing, back when he'd done his first stint in here. He had been no more than twenty then, thin as a reed, and his tousled hair and scraggly beard had made him look like just another stupid college kid busted for possession.

As he and the other new meat had entered the cellblock the seasoned inmates had catcalled and chanted, as was to be expected. Numbers, in all his youthful arrogance, had flipped the entire cellblock the bird, which really only made him stand out more. He had let his guard down for just a second and hey presto, there they came descending on him like a pack of wolves.

Luckily for him, there were plenty of others from the Syndicate in there, and those guys look out for their own. Numbers had escaped by the skin of his teeth. But no one could save him from being reprimanded by Old Skinner, Fargo's resident grandpa, who had slapped him in the back of the head and called him a green idiot.

"If you piss anyone else off," the old man had said, "we won't be here to save you next time someone wants a lay. Got it?"

Numbers had quickly learned humility.

The big guy shakes his notepad at him, bringing him back to the present.

"Why'd they put a deaf guy in here anyway?" Numbers wants to know, mouthing every word carefully. "Isn't that like cruel and unusual punishment or something?"

His cellmate simply shrugs. Numbers finds it hard to believe that he doesn't know, but it's probably a long story and this form of communication is certainly tedious.

He's reminded of another inmate from years back, whose name he can't remember; the guy was blind on one eye and had a limp, and they'd still kept the poor fucker in with the able bodied. Needless to say, he'd been picked off pretty quick. Nobody did dick about it, of course. The American penal system has always been a sick joke.

"So why'd you come to me anyway?"

The big guy turns to his pad again, impressing Numbers with the speed of his hand.

'Cellmate. And you've got clout. Been watching. No one fucks with you.'

"Yeah, I've got some friends in here... What's in it for me, though? If I give you protection?"

His cellmate scribbles something down, and he seems to hesitate for a moment before presenting it.

'I'll suck your dick.'

Numbers' eyes go wide as saucers. He hadn't meant it like _that_. He was thinking of money or something. _Although,_ he thinks, _it has been a few years now..._

"Do you... do you _want_ to suck my dick?" he asks, thankful that his cellmate can't hear the hopeful streak in his voice.

'If that's what it takes,' the reply reads.

"Well in that case," Numbers sighs, his face flushing with shame. "No thanks. Color me old fashioned, I just can't get off on it if the other guy isn't enjoying himself."

The big lug looks a tad disappointed as well, albeit for entirely different reasons, Numbers assumes.

"Fuck it, I'll watch your back anyway," he finally says, taking pity on the kid. "If you watch mine. Can't hurt to have a hulk like you on my side, right?"

The giant cracks a tiny, nearly undetectable smile.

"So what do I call you, big guy?"

'Wrench.'

_Well, it had to be something like that, didn't it._

\---

"I wanna learn ASL."

Numbers is in the cellblock supervisor's office, appealing to the pink, bald, pug-nosed man they'd nicknamed Babe on account of his likeness to a piglet and, fate being a hilarious motherfucker, his last name being Bacon.

"ASL? What's that prison slang for?"

Numbers rolls his eyes. _Dumber than a bag of rocks_. Proudly displayed on the wall is Babe's university diploma - a degree in sociology, of all things - making Numbers wonder how much money Babe Senior had to cough up.

"American Sign Language," Numbers explains. "Tried looking in the library for some books, but no luck."

"That's because it's against state regulations."

"Yeah, well, the state shouldn't have put a disabled guy in here in the first place. Surely you can make an exception?"

The supervisor narrows his little pig eyes at him.

"Why you so eager, huh? You known this guy, what, a week? I reckon, either you two're cooking up something or you're suckin' this fella's dick. And I aint ecstatic about neither of those possibilities."

"I just wanna be able to communicate with the guy."

"He got his pad, don't he?" He wags a stubby finger at Numbers. "If I catch you two talkin' in your secret language or fuckin' each other up the ass, I will separate the two of ya faster than you can say 'cripple'. Capisce?"

"Man alive," Numbers sighs, resigned. _There's no winning with this goddamn yokel._  

Numbers gets up to leave, but the man-pig reaches across his desk and grabs him by the sleeve.

"You heard me, son?"

Numbers glances down at those sweaty little sausage fingers clutching his sleeve, then back up at the supervisor. When Numbers' dark, grave eyes meet his, Babe's tough guy act seems to crumble and he releases him immediately.

Before leaving the supervisor to do whatever it is he does in his office all day - minesweeper and beating off, presumably - Numbers lingers in the doorway.

"Nobody says capisce, you fucking tool."

\---

Wrench is sitting on his bunk reading when he notices a dark blob in his peripheral vision. Numbers is looking pissed.

"I need to ask you a favor," he says as he leans on the top bunk.

The notepad nowhere in sight, Wrench simply cocks his head to the side, well aware that it makes him look like a confused puppy.

"I want you to teach me sign language."

Now he really needs his pad. He lifts his pillow, pats the bed with his hand.

"You're sitting on it," Numbers says as he digs the notepad out from underneath Wrench's thigh and hands it to him.

 _Thanks,_ Wrench signs with a hand to his chin, and scribbles down 'Why?'

"I wanna be able to talk to you without that thing," Numbers replies, pointing at the pad. "And it's not like I've got anything better to do with my time."

Wrench nods, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"What?" Numbers says. "You don't think I can do it?"

Wrench chuckles. It's the first time Numbers hears his cellmate's voice, and he's surprised at the softness of it.

'It's not really a favor,' he writes, 'I'm happy to do it.'


	2. P-O-K-E-R

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Practising ASL, playing poker... and penises.

They have their lessons in the cell, on Numbers' bunk, well away from prying eyes. Numbers has paid the guy three cells over, a highly unstable man known as Freakshow, to alert them whenever a C.O. approaches.

When asked what he wanted as payment, Freakshow had requested a lock of hair from the both of them. Numbers doesn't want to think about what he will do with the hair, but he figures it's a square deal. He's certainly got enough to spare.

"We have to be careful," he tells Wrench after shearing off one of his cellmate's red curls with a shiv. "Babe might be a laughing stock around here, but he's got the power to make your life miserable if you give him half a reason to. And he's got his spies."

'How do you know Freakshow isn't one of them?' Wrench writes.

"Babe is bald as a bowlingball, that's how."

Wrench teaches him the basics first: the alphabet, numbers, yes, no, me, you, sorry, thanks, that kind of stuff. Numbers breezes through it, but once they start building vocabulary and making full sentences it's a whole different story altogether. Numbers is realizing that he's not very good with his hands.

He's not a fast learner, not anymore. When he was a kid he would soak up information like a sponge. Math, languages, geography, physics, history - he'd excel at it all. Family and teachers alike would fawn over him and call him things like 'genius' and 'wunderkind'. His parents had had great plans for him, Ivy League and all.

Somewhere along the way, though, it had started going downhill; he'd stopped trying, started hanging out with "the wrong crowd"... Numbers has never really made a concerted effort to delve into the hidden depths of his own psyche, but he knows himself well enough to say with one hundred percent certainty that it was the burning desire to underachieve that eventually drove him into the loving arms of Fargo's seedy underbelly.

His intellectual prowess was what had earned him his moniker - and yet here he is, struggling to remember even the simplest of hand movements.

Numbers is disappointed in himself; he's supposed to be good at this kind of stuff. He half expects his cellmate to be equally disappointed, to huff and puff and roll his eyes at him for asking the same question a hundred times, for messing up the same sentences again and again... but Wrench is being surprisingly patient with him.

_You could be a real teacher,_ Numbers signs, his hands moving excruciatingly slow.

Wrench shakes his head.

_Yeah,_ Numbers insists, _you're really good._

Wrench just stares at him for what seems like an awful long time, the peculiar, pensive look in his eyes starting to unnerve his cellmate.

"Uh, so you you wanna continue, or...?"

_I have to go to bed_ , Wrench suddenly decides.

_What?_ Numbers signs. _  
_

_I'm tired. It's late._

"It's only nine o'clock!" Numbers says, but Wrench has already climbed into his bunk and turned his back on him.

Numbers spends the rest of the evening practising the sentence 'Did I say something wrong?'

\---

The weeks drag on, Wrench insisting that nothing's amiss, that he really was just tired, and Numbers pretending that being so blatantly lied to doesn't annoy him in the least.

They still practice ASL every day, for hours on end, and the focus eventually makes the awkwardness dissipate. They talk about themselves - what little information they dare to divulge and Numbers is capable of communicating, anyway - and they are slowly getting to know each other.

Wrench now knows the reason his cellmate is called Numbers (he used to count cards) and Numbers knows why Wrench is Wrench (he once took a guy out with, you guessed it, a _wrench_ ). Wrench knows about Numbers' multiple phobias (spiders, germs, being out on the open sea) and Numbers knows about Wrench's one guilty pleasure (The Jerry Springer Show).

Wrench didn't quite know what to make of his cellmate at first, why he was being so goddamn _nice_. He might be young, but he's been around long enough to know that when you're in prison and a guy's being nice to you, he usually has ulterior motives. But it's been well over a month now and Numbers hasn't yet shown any signs of being a sociopath. And having grown up in foster care, Wrench knows a sociopath when he sees one.

He's feeling like he's starting to trust this man, and that scares the living shit out of him. It's bad enough that his stomach had fluttered that time Numbers had told him he was a good teacher. _I need to keep a lid on that shit._ There's nothing worse than caring about someone, because it is always accompanied by the threat of loss.

_Do you play P-O-K-E-R?_ Numbers asks.

_Yeah._   _Why?_

_The guys are coming over for some rounds._

_I don't know,_ Wrench signs. _I don't think your friends like me._

His cellmate just laughs and shakes his head, but they both know it's true; when Numbers had first brought his cellmate to sit at their table during breakfast, Wrench had been met with four sets of eyes glaring daggers at him. It was like being in high school again (or so he would say, if he'd actually made it past the 6th grade). Those guys definitely don't trust him.

Numbers seems to trust him, kind of, but apparently not enough to tell him where he really knows these 'friends' from. Wrench's guess is they used to work together on the outside, because they all seem to have creepy nicknames for each other. Wrench would fit right in if if weren't for the fact that they hate his guts.

Secondly, such a ridiculously diverse bunch doesn't usually come together in prison unless they have some connection on the outside; Numbers is Jewish, Stretch is black, Needle is Puerto Rican, and Boots and Dunk are pure white trash. It's like a street gang in a shitty '80s flick. Wrench often entertains the idea of them wearing matching bandanas and fingerless leather gloves, getting their asses handed to them by Steven Seagal.

"Oh great," Dunk says as he and the others enter their cell. "Your puppy is here." The pie-faced hick glares at the big guy lounging on Numbers' bunk with a book.

"Yeah, it's his cell too, you know," Numbers replies, clearly fed up with Dunk and his alpha male bullshit. "Let's just fucking play, alright? Sit your ass down."

They play for smokes, quickly hiding them underneath their legs whenever Freakshow starts singing _Smoke on the Water,_ signaling a C.O.'s approach. When the guard walks past, they all smile sweetly and assure him they're just playing Crazy Eights and not in fact gambling with contraband.

Despite the riskiness of the game it soon gets boring for Numbers, who is winning most of the rounds. He turns to Wrench.

"You wanna play?"

The guys roll their eyes, and Wrench declines with a shake of his head.

_Come on_ , Numbers signs.

_Stop,_ Wrench replies with furious hands. _They hate me._

_They won't once they get to know you, alright? Come on._

Wrench sighs as he leaves his book on the bed and reluctantly takes a seat on the floor. Numbers is the only one who scoots over to make room for the newcomer.

As Needle deals, Wrench examines the back of the cards; they're old and tatty, each adorned with tasteless photographs of women in various states of undress.

"What, you don't like pussy?" Dunk asks when he sees Wrench making a face. "You some kinda faggot?"

Wrench looks him square in the eye.

_Yeah, I love cock,_ he signs, deadpan. _You some kinda balding small dick bedwetting sisterfucker from Incest Mountain?_

Numbers bursts out laughing while the other guys look on in confusion.

"What did he say?" Dunk shouts at Numbers. "What did he fucking say?!"

_Don't you worry about where I stick my dick,_ Wrench continues, _because there's no way it's going anywhere near your Hills Have Eyes-looking ass._

"Numbers, what did he say?!"

"I didn't catch all of it," Numbers says, still in stitches, wiping the tears from his eyes. "But, uh, long story short, he thinks you look like a guy who fucks his own sister. Oh, and that you've got a small dick."

That makes Stretch crack up, too. "Hah, this kid's alright."

"Small dick!?" Dunk shrieks, somehow more offended by that than being accused of committing incest. " _Small dick?!_ "

"Well, to be fair," Numbers says, "you did call him a fag. I mean, what did you expect?"

"Does this look small to you, asshole?" Dunk growls as he unzips his pants and whips it out.

Wrench takes one look at it and imitates a crying infant, then points to Dunk's flaccid, unimpressive penis.

"Baby dick," Numbers translates, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Dunk splutters. "Well, let's see his dick then, if it's so big!"

_I thought you were afraid if my gay dick_ , Wrench signs, making Numbers laugh again.

Now the others are laughing too, not because they understand a word of Wrench's put-downs, but because of Dunk's fragile ego and his red, huffing face.

"Fucking pull it out!" Dunk shouts, tucking himself back in his pants.

Numbers cringes with secondhand embarrassment, whereas Wrench simply shrugs and opens his pants - and what he pulls out from there is like something out of a Tom of Finland drawing.

A crushing silence descends on the room.

" _Joder,_ " Needle whispers. "It's a fucking python, man."

Numbers dreads to think what that thing would look like when erect. He swallows hard as the more primitive recesses of his brain conjures up images of him putting his mouth on that giant, uncut beast, and he wills himself to think unsexy thoughts.

_Ingrown toenails, Grandma, spiders, vomit, Bruce Vilanch, baby poop,_ Numbers repeats over and over inside his head. _It would not not do to get a semi right now, no sir._  Thankfully, he's not a spring chicken anymore and his dick is well trained by now.

Dunk quickly gathers his playing cards and cigarettes in silence, avoiding everyone's eyes, before storming out of the cell without another word.

_Show's over,_ Wrench signs and puts his gargantuan junk away, to everyone's relief.

\---

After that, Wrench gets along famously with Numbers' gang. They watch his back, they save him a seat at their table, they joke with him (mostly about his enormous dick) and beg him to teach them ASL so they can use it for nefarious purposes. The only one who doesn't seem ecstatic about the new addition to their group is Dunk, who is now prone to quiet sulking and picking at his food.

_Oh, how the mighty have fallen,_ Wrench thinks, amused at the simplicity of destroying another man's ego. _All it takes is a bigger dick._

It's nice to feel included, for once, but mostly he just wants to be alone Numbers. With the amount of different foster homes and public schools and juvies he's passed through, he's never really had anyone to talk to, at least not anyone he _liked_. And even if he is a grumpy old bastard sometimes, he really, really likes Numbers... a bit too much, perhaps.

Wrench knows it's mutual, too; on more than one occasion he's caught Numbers staring, usually when he's shirtless - which Wrench now endeavors to be as often as possible, big tease that he is - and even more so since the Penis Incident. Numbers will pointedly look away, either trying not to be rude or trying to pretend he's not a lecherous fuck... but Wrench is deaf, not _blind_.


	3. Predictable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrench and Numbers don't know dick about prisoners' rights... but thankfully, their friend does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this is littered w/ misinformation about American prisons... everything I know about the subject I've learned from Oz and OitNB (and that information is questionable at best, haha).

"You think I don't know what you're up to?" Babe hisses, spraying Number's face with spittle. "I have eyes everywhere. And they tell me you an' your buttbuddy are talkin' your freaky finger language when I'm not lookin'."

Numbers wipes the droplets of saliva off his face with his sleeve. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well, how's this for freaky finger language?" He says and flips him the bird.

"I'm transferring him to a different cell block! _Today!_ " Babe shouts after Numbers as he walks off, middle finger still raised in salute. "You mark my words!"

"The fuck was that about?" Needle asks when Numbers takes a seat at their table.

"Fuckin' asshole's been saying we can't sign," Numbers replies and steals a tater tot from Wrench's tray. "He's got beef with me for some reason."

"You can't sign?" Stretch says. "That's unconstitutional, man."

"Well, it's not like we got any rights around here," Numbers mumbles around a mouthful of potatoes.

"No, really, that shit right there's a human rights issue. You should talk to a lawyer 'bout this."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah!" Stretch's mouth sprays bread crumbs everywhere, always excited about screwing the system. For a guy whose job is torturing people, he's surprisingly well-informed on human rights.

"My cousin was servin' time in medium down in Louisiana and you know he's got those bum legs, he's in a wheelchair and everything... well, he talked to this lawyer lady and she got him transferred to minimum. _And_ a better wheelchair."

"'S that right."

"Look into it," Stretch says. "'S all I'm sayin'."

 _What are you guys talking about?_ Wrench signs, looking confused. _I can't read your lips when you're eating._

_We're gonna go talk to Babe._

\---

At the mere mention of civil rights lawyers, Babe starts sweating like the pig he is. He and his superiors have already had people on their ass multiple times this year for suicides, rapes, corruption and other failures on their part, and Babe is keen to stay clear of another media circus. So Wrench gets to stay, and he gets to communicate with Numbers in any way he damn well pleases.

 _Thanks_ , Wrench signs as they're getting ready for bed. _I really appreciate it._

 _N-P,_ Numbers' signs clumsily with his left hand, his right hand busy brushing his teeth.

He spits into the sink and rinses his mouth out with water. When he looks up in the mirror, he finds Wrench standing right behind him.

 _You still want your dick sucked?_ Wrench's reflection asks.

Numbers blinks. _You don't owe me anything,_ he signs with unsteady hands.

 _Fuck off, I'm not trying to pay you back. I_ want _to do it._

Numbers is about to sign that he doesn't think it's a good idea when the C.O. suddenly yells "Lights out!" and everything goes black.

He can feel Wrench getting closer, heat radiating from his body, his breath soft on Numbers' cheek. Fingers reach out and trace his collarbone. Then there's the sound of a zipper, and he hears Wrench kneeling on the floor.

_Holy fuck._

\---

The next day is awkward as all hell, but Wrench isn't the quitting type. Numbers had enjoyed himself, that much is certain, so Wrench tries it again that night.

 _No,_ Numbers signs, gently pushing him away.

_Why? And don't tell me you're straight, because I'm going to laugh in your face._

_It's not that. Babe has been looking for a reason to fuck with me. He'll try to split us up again._

_We can be careful,_ Wrench signs and moves in to kiss him again, but once again he is stopped by Numbers putting a palm to his chest.

_Don't. It's not safe for you._

_What do you think is gonna happen?_

_He'll send you to D block._

_And what happens in D block?_

_I don't know, exactly,_ Numbers admits. _But I've got some buddies in there, and they've told me stories. You don't want to go there. Trust me._

 _I think I can make my own decisions,_ Wrench insists.

"Please," Numbers says with a tired sigh and gets into his bunk, no indication for Wrench to join him.

 _If you're so worried about me,_ Wrench starts, _why don't you ask those friends of yours in D block to-_

"Lights out!" the C.O shouts, and that's it for any further discussion.

Wrench is furious. Here Numbers goes endearing himself to him by being all nice and learning ASL for him, makes it plain as day that he's attracted to him, that he enjoyed himself last night - and then he just pulls away like that? _What absolute bullshit._

About two hours after lights out, Wrench feels the bunkbed starting to rock ever so slightly. He has to stifle a laugh.

_Oh, I know what you're doing, asshole._

\---

Every day is the same, every night is the same; they share awkward looks over breakfast, stare one another down at lunch, avoid each other's eyes during dinner. As soon as the lights go out, Wrench starts pushing and Numbers pulls away, the latter ending up masturbating the sexual frustration away when he thinks his cellmate is asleep.

His nightly routine might be predictable as fuck, but otherwise Numbers is a mystery to him. By the light of day he's so nonchalant, and then when it's just the two of them in their cell he transforms into this second-guessing, hand-wringing neurotic. There's really no reason for him to be that concerned; assuming that Babe does find out, assuming Wrench is sent to D block, all they need to do is call in some favors. Easy. No cause for panic.

There is, of course, the possibility that Numbers is developing feelings for him, but Wrench won't allow himself to be that conceited.

 _This is getting old,_ he thinks as the bunkbed starts rocking again, midnight on the dot.

_Fuck it._

Wrench tosses the sheets to the side and hops out of his bunk, amused to find that the bed immediately stills.

It's not often that Wrench laments his lack of hearing. Tonight he does, though, because someone seriously needs to inform Numbers that he's being about as subtle as a turd in a paddling pool and is fooling precisely _no one_.

In stead he takes a seat on the bottom bunk and sneaks a hand under the covers.

As his fist curls around his cellmate's hard-on, pleased to find that he makes no further objections, Wrench puts his left hand over Numbers' heart. His skin is like a hotplate and his heartbeat is picking up speed, breath heavy and erratic, chest rising and falling as Wrench moves his hand up and down his shaft.

When Numbers is nearing his climax, bucking his hips to meet his cellmate's hand, the cheeky devil in Wrench decides to stop.

There's not much to see in the darkness, but if Wrench squints he can make out the faint outline of Numbers' body: he's sitting up, throwing his arms out in exasperation. Wrench can only guess as to the look on his cellmate's face, but it's probably _priceless_.

Numbers reaches out and puts a finger to Wrench's chest:

'FUCK YOU' he spells out.

'OK' Wrench writes back, wishing his cellmate could see his smug grin.

Numbers just sits there for a moment, hesitant, staring down at the invisible letters burning holes in his skin.

'NO' he finally replies.

Resigned, Wrench tries to get up, but Numbers stops him with a firm grip on his arm - apparently he wasn't finished.

'I DONT TOP' he writes, and pulls Wrench to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeeeeeah you KNOW Numbers is a bottom ;-)


	4. Parole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this is where it gets angsty. I blame Interpol.

They somehow manage to stay under Babe's radar, being careful, quiet. Once Numbers had stopped being a nervous wreck, he'd found that getting away with it is in fact laughably easy. If he were a religious man, he'd say it was divine intervention - but he's not, and even if he was he sure as hell wouldn't deserve it.

For a time, they're about as close to happy as they can get... but then, this is prison. You can't just come and go as you please, and Numbers' five years are almost at an end.

_You know my parole is coming up, right?_

Wrench simply nods. He doesn't really want to think about it right now, or _ever_ , but Numbers keeps bringing it up.

 _I've been on my best behavior,_ Numbers signs with a wink, _or so the parole board believes. I'm pretty sure they're going to grant it._

_Good._

_You don't seem too happy about it._

_I just don't want to discuss it right now,_ Wrench replies, pretending to focus on the words in his book, turning the page to make it look like he's actually reading.

 _I'll still visit,_ Numbers signs, apparently incapable of taking a goddamn hint. _And I'll write you._

_Okay._

_And the guys will look out for you, don't worry._

_Cool._

Numbers' parole hearing is in two weeks, while his own is still off by seven months. Wrench used to be worried about having no one to look out for him, but now this pales in comparison to the fear that Numbers will forget about him once he's out.

It's his own fault, really; he should have known better than to let himself get carried away. The sex was just supposed to _alleviate_ tension, not create more of it... but then, perhaps he'd been feeling like this long before they even started fucking.

 _He might come by once or twice,_ Wrench thinks, _but eventually he'll realize it was only a prison fuck and that'll be the end of it._

He could just talk to him about it, sure, but Wrench has been screwed over enough times to know what'll happen: Numbers will laugh and call him silly and paranoid, he'll try to reassure him with a soft kiss, getting Wrench's hopes up, and in the end he'll leave him anyway.

_Everybody fucking leaves._

\---

The parole hearing comes and goes without much fuss, and Numbers is a free man. He's relieved, of course, but when it's finally time to say goodbye to that shithole, it's bittersweet.

Wrench has been distancing himself from him over the past couple of weeks, rejecting advances, acting cold, and Numbers has brought it up several times but that stubborn ass flat-out _refuses_ to talk about it. Numbers isn't stupid; he knows Wrench has got some deeply rooted abandonment issues, which is only to be expected from a guy with a background like his. Also, he's in his early twenties. He remembers himself at that age (much to his embarrassment) and he has to admit he was an immature little shitbird.

Parole is inevitable, though, unless he fucks it up on purpose. _What am I supposed to do? Have a punch up with the Aryan Brotherhood?_

"Well, I'm off," Numbers says.

Wrench is lying on his bunk with his eyes closed.

"Jesus fucking Christ..."

Numbers walks up to him and taps him on the shoulder. With great reluctance Wrench opens his eyes.

_What?_

_I'm going._

_Good for you,_ Wrench signs and closes his eyes again.

"God, why do you have to be such a baby about this?" Numbers sighs. "You could at least say goodbye!"

It's no use. He could scream at him until he's blue in the face but Wrench would still be deaf, and Numbers can't very well pry his eyelids open.

He leaves without another word, hoping that when his cellmate finally opens his eyes and finds him gone, he'll feel at least a tiny bit of regret.

\---

"Mail for you."

Wrench frowns. The letter can really only be from one person. _Why does he have to make it so fucking hard?_ He tears open the envelope with shaking hands.

_Wrench,_

_I've been coming every week for a month now, just to sit around staring at an empty chair. The least you could do is tell me why you've been ignoring me. I honestly don't think I've done anything wrong. If you've got something to say to me, I expect you to come and see me next week._

_\- Numbers_

Wrench crumples up the paper and throws it in the toilet bowl.

\---

He had expected that Numbers would stop coming after he didn't do as the letter requested. What he hadn't counted on was feeling disappointed.

He'd known it would happen and he'd tried so hard to prepare himself for it, to soften the blow - but when he'd looked at the list of visitors and found that Numbers' name wasn't on it that week, he'd felt a lump in his throat. It had dawned on him that, for all his efforts, he'd never really been prepared.

There's also a sudden feeling of regret; what if he'd been wrong? Wrench toys with the idea that maybe he'd tried a little bit _too_ hard to push Numbers away when in reality he hadn't needed to, and in doing so fulfilled his own prophecy. He briefly considers writing Numbers an apology.

 _No, it would happen eventually,_ he decides. _Fuck him._

The months leading up to his parole hearing are spent reading and avoiding the other inmates. The guys keep pestering him about Numbers; "Has he dropped by lately?" "Has he written?" "How is he?" "Do you know?"

He doesn't need that shit. It's hard enough trying to forget about someone without everyone throwing constant reminders in your face. Wrench is starting to think that they'd always known what was going on, even that knucklehead Dunk. And here he'd been going around thinking they'd been careful.

\---

When he finally steps outside the prison gate, he feels like he's past it. It's a sunny, crisp autumn day, a good day to start afresh.  _Maybe I'll go South._

But then, something in the parking lot catches his eye; a familiar figure steps out of an ancient, busted-up Camaro and waves at him.

_Oh, goddamnit._

_Are those the clothes you came in with?_ Numbers signs as he approaches, grinning, gesturing to his fringed jacked.

Wrench walks straight past him, heading down the path toward the highway.

When he reaches the side of the road he sticks his fist out, thumb pointing to the sky. A few cars and trucks pass by, none of them showing signs of stopping, most of them really hitting the gas when they realize he's a massive guy and fresh out of prison. After about a dozen or so, Numbers taps him on the shoulder.

 _You really think anyone's going to stop for you?_ he signs. _Come on. I'm buying breakfast._

The diner is a bit of a shithole, but Wrench is happy to finally enjoy a meal that's not bland, processed crap. He tucks into his eggs, refusing to look at Numbers. The annoying fuck starts tugging at his sleeve.

_What?_

_Have you got work lined up?_ Numbers asks.

_No._

_Where are you gonna stay?_

Wrench shrugs.

_Where are you gonna go?_

_Where are_ you _gonna go with all these fucking questions?_

 _If you need a place to stay,_ Numbers signs, _my couch is free._

Wrench sighs, pushing his plate away. He has lost his appetite behind this shit.

 _Look,_ Numbers continues, _I know you hate me for some reason, and truth be told I wasn't sure if I should even come today. But I also know you've got no one else and I'd feel like such an asshole if I didn't offer you a place to stay for the first few days, at least._

Wrench tries really hard not to soften up at that, and not to be impressed by the fact that Numbers has gotten a lot better at ASL.

 _I don't need anything from you_.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Numbers hisses, attracting puzzled looks from the other patrons.

 _I don't know why you're being like this,_ he signs. _You never even gave me an explanation._

Wrench just glares at him.

"Alright, you know what," Numbers says as he gets up and grabs his coat from the back of the chair. "There's only so much a guy can take."

He puts on his coat and digs into one of the pockets, pulls out a wad of cash from his wallet and chucks it on the table. Hesitating for a moment, he retrieves a pen from his other pocket.

"In case you change your mind," he says as he scribbles something down on a napkin, shaking his head at himself. "For when things get tough - and they _will_ \- here's my address and phone number."

As Numbers stomps out of the diner, Wrench considers the napkin.

 _I really shouldn't,_ he tells himself and shoves it in his pocket.

\---

Wrench has made it through without much trouble, his parole officer taking pity on him for his disability. Steady jobs are hard to come by, however.

The rehabilitation program's helping hand only stretches so far, presumably because the government doesn't actually _want_ to rehabilitate anyone. Not many businesses will touch an ex-con with a ten-foot pole, let alone a deaf ex-con, so in the beginning Wrench can only get odd jobs. And those are few and far between.

It's the same with housing; he has been doing a gig at a soup kitchen for a while where they've given him room and board in exchange for work, and that was good enough for him. But everything must come to an end.

"We need to keep circulating," Miss Olafsson had said with a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "There are ex-cons and veterans coming in almost every day, looking for honest work and a place to stay. And you've been with us for long enough to lay the groundwork for ya. You gotta make it on your own now, okay? I hope you understand."

What little money he has quickly runs out, and after living on the streets for a week, being harrassed and pickpocketed daily, unable to find a steady job due to his lack of experience with legit work - but mostly due to his entire being smelling like a sewer rat - he finally caves in.

Numbers finds him sitting hunched over in his doorway, looking like death.

 _Looks like you won,_ Wrench signs.


	5. Professional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crashing on Numbers' couch is humiliating enough - working with him on top of that is about as close to Hell as he can imagine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Numbers, I'm sorry for treating you like shit in this chapter :-(

Numbers' couch isn't exactly soft, but it sure beats sleeping on wooden benches and concrete. The apartment has central heating, too. And hot showers. And HBO. Compared to what he's had lately, this is a paradise on earth.

 _The only thing I'd change about this place,_ Wrench thinks, _is Numbers._

The guy's been taking good care of him, he'll give him that. And he's grateful to him, make no mistake - but the tension is palpable. Numbers leaves him alone most of the time, now used to having his attempts at friendliness rejected, and he certainly doesn't make any sexual advances. Once again Wrench finds himself feeling disappointed, and he hates himself for it.

 _Found a place yet?_ Numbers asks him over dinner.

Wrench shakes his head.

_What about a job?_

_Not yet,_ he answers. _Sorry._

_No need to be sorry. I know it's hard._

_I don't want to overstay my welcome._

_You're welcome to stay for long as you want._

Wrench sighs. He knows quite well that he can stay as long as he wants, but if he had a better option he'd be out the door in a heartbeat.

 _You know,_ Numbers signs, _you could always just come and work with me. Fargo always needs people. And I could use a partner._

Crashing on Numbers' couch for weeks on end is humiliating enough, working with him on top of that is about as close to Hell as he can imagine... but then, it's not like he's got much choice. It's not like he hasn't been out there every single day, all day, handing out his pitiful resumé, faking smiles through interview after interview while they look at him with fear and pity.

_Thanks. I'll think about it._

_Please do,_ Numbers signs. _My arms are getting tired from lugging all these bodies around._

\---

Wrench had kept on trying to find honest work, but after another month of fruitless searching he has officially had it with let-downs. _Working with Numbers can't be that bad, right?_

To his immense relief, it's not very bad at all. The work is easy, for the most part (the only drawback being that goddamn ice drill) and the money is good. After just a few jobs, he saves up enough for his own place. It's only a crappy rental, but the landlord accepts cash and doesn't ask questions.

He's even growing used to the company; Numbers is different when he's working, somehow more focused, more confident. And he's very good at his job, _scary_ good. A fine actor, he does the charming stranger routine just as easily as he does the cold-blooded gangster, and he's able to switch it on and off at will. Life on the outside suits him, Wrench has to admit.

The straw that breaks the camel's back is when he digs around in the glove compartment of Numbers' Camaro looking for tissues, and finds a number of books on ASL in stead.

 _Yeah, I've been trying to maintain it,_ Numbers explains. _Been taking classes, too. But I've realized I'm kind of an independent learner, so I don't really get much out of it. I don't know if I'll keep going._

Wrench can't do much else than just sit there and stare, at a loss for words.

 _Why are you looking at me like that?_ Numbers asks.

Throwing all caution to the wind, Wrench leans over and cups Numbers' head in his hands, planting a soft kiss on his partner's open mouth.

"Woah, woah, wait," Numbers says, pulling away. "What are you doing?"

_Kissing you._

Numbers sighs.

_We're working together now. We have to keep it professional._

Wrench can't believe his eyes. Why had Numbers worked so hard to get back in his good graces, if he hadn't wanted this to be the result? Guilt? Pity? Or is this some kind of mindfuck?

_You're joking._

_I'm not. Look-_

_You're a coward,_ Wrench interrupts and gets out of the car, slamming the door in his Numbers' face.

\---

This bar is lousy with guys on the down-low, and Numbers knows it. It's not like he came here for award-winning cocktails and great atmosphere.

The big guy in the flannel shirt at the other end of the bar has been eyeing him all night. While Numbers thinks it might be a bit of a gamble, there's really no better candidate at the moment; everyone else is too small, too soft around the edges, and none of them are paying attention to him anyway. He desperately needs to get this out of his system, so just this once he's willing to overlook the fact that the guy has the unmistakable air of a sex offender about him.

Unlike most of the guys in here, though, Numbers can handle himself. And he had the foresight to bring protection, which is a reassuring thought.

The creep slips off his bar stool, and as he passes Numbers on his way out he mumbles,

"Outside."

Numbers finishes his smoke, debating with himself whether or not this is a good idea. _Well, it's definitely not the greatest idea I've ever had,_ he decides as he stubs out the cigarette and heads for the door. _But hey, what can you do._

He finds the man in a narrow, dimly lit alley out back, waiting for him behind a dumpster. _Charming._

"Was starting to think you wouldn't show."

"Alright, rules," Numbers says as he removes his coat and jacket, hanging them off the corner of the dumpster. "Number one, you wear a rubber. No exceptions. Number two, no kissing. Number three, no violence. Number four, no talking. Not under any circumstance."

"Fine," the stranger huffs, and Numbers wonders if he'll actually stick to his word.

He doesn't, of course. The condom goes on, Numbers makes sure of that, but it doesn't take long for the motherfucker to start treating him like they're in some kind of messed up torture porno. He's got Numbers up against the wall, grinding his face into the rough bricks with one hand as his other hand restrains his wrists behind his back. And as for rule number four: not only does this fucker talk, he won't shut the fuck up even for a second, calling him all manners of abusive slurs; _slut, kike, faggot, whore._

"I said no talk, asshole," Numbers hisses.

The creep barks a laugh and yanks his head back by his hair. "Aren't you cute, thinking that you're the one in control." He kisses Numbers on the mouth - another violation of the rules - before slamming his forehead against the brick wall.

His head feels like it's been split right in two, and there's a soft trickle of blood running down his face. He quickly realizes this wasn't a just a bad idea - it was a fucking _terrible_ idea.

"Stop... please, stop."

The guy pulls out and releases his wrists. For a second Numbers is relieved, thinking that he'd actually listened. But when he turns his head, he finds that the guy is just fumbling with the condom, trying to get it off.

"I hate fuckin' condoms, man, can't feel a goddamn thing," the guy hisses as it comes off with a snap. "Now, where were we."

 _Oh,_ hell _no._

Numbers turns and knees him in the gut.

Stumbling backwards, the creep heaves for air as Numbers pulls his pants back up and rummages around in his pocket. Still disoriented from the blow to his head earlier, he isn't as quick to react as he would normally be, and before he can retrieve his weapon the fucker has socked him in the mouth.

"You little bitch," he spits, grabbing Numbers by the arm. "I'm gonna beat you to filth. And then we're gonna finish what we started."

He's ready to land another punch, but at the last second Numbers draws his switchblade, and his assailant impales himself on it.

The feeling of blood gushing over his hand as he twists the blade is delightful, as is the look of shock on the man's face. He must have done this kind of thing, and much worse, a hundred times. Probably got away with it, too. _Well, you dumb fuck,_ Numbers thinks, flashing a toothy grin,  _Not today._

He pulls the knife out and thrusts it back in, again and again, knowing very well where to stick it in order to inflict the most damage. The creep eventually sinks to his knees and passes out. Numbers exhales, relieved, and makes a mental note to never, ever, _ever_ go looking for one-night-stands again. At least not in this part of town.

He retrieves his coat and jacket, pulls out a handkerchief to wipe his hands and knife, and dons his leather gloves.

Popping his head out from behind the corner, Numbers checks on his car; It's still parked by the curb down the street, just where he left it. But there's a gang of kids hanging around there, leaning on the hood as they pass a brown paper bag around. They don't look like they're ready to leave anytime soon.

"Fuck," Numbers whispers.

The best thing to do would be making it look like a robbery, which means some other poor sucker will go down for it. _I am a far too charming and well-dressed man to be a suspect,_ he reasons as he pockets the man's cell phone, car keys and watch, and pulls out a wallet and... a sheriff's badge? Numbers has to laugh.

_To protect and serve, huh? What a fucking joke._

He heaves the corpse into the dumpster, trying to buy himself some time by covering it with the numerous trashbags sitting alongside the wall. Hopefully they won't find it until garbage truck comes. If he's extra super lucky, they won't find it at all.

"The shit I put myself through..."

\---

Wrench knows Numbers and had expected him to overcompensate, but he hadn't expected him to be so reckless about it; in prison he would simply beat off to rid himself of the sexual frustration, while on the outside he takes risks, often showing up for work looking like he's been in a fight with a bear. _So much for being inconspicuous._

Wrench is initially pissed off at him - it's almost as if he's deliberately rubbing his face in it - but after the first few times he starts to get worried. One day his partner even shows up with a split lip, scratches on his cheekbone and a bump the size of an egg on his forehead. Wrench pretends not to notice that familiar limp in his step, and wonders if the guy who did this to him is still alive - Numbers always liked it rough, but not _that_ rough.

Wrench wonders if he's being careful about the places he goes, about protection. He wonders if Numbers asks them to be quiet, if they look like him, all tall and broad-shouldered. He wonders if it's worth it in the end, if it's really _enough_.

\---

Their target is supposed to be at home, alone, but someone must have tipped him off because he seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. What they are met with instead are a bunch of goons with guns, and the two hitmen are forced to create a bloodbath.

 _I'm gonna murder intel for this shit,_ Numbers signs once he thinks they're in the clear.

Wrench spots something over his shoulder, and is quick on the trigger; Numbers whips around to find a scrawny guy being shot point blank in the head by Wrench. The little bastard goes down - but not before he gets one shot in.

The bullet goes straight through Numbers' chest. Thankfully, the guy's aim was shit and it misses his heart by a couple of inches.

As the would-be hero's brains seep out over the persian rug, Numbers brings a shaking hand to the hole his chest.

"Fuck..."

Feeling his knees buckle, he knows he's about to pass out. Taking action, Wrench sweeps him up and carries him out to the car, where he removes Numbers' coat and creates a makeshift tourniquet out of his scarf.

He slaps Numbers' cheek and looks him straight in the eye.

_Stay awake. Just keep talking to me._

"But you can't hear me," Numbers whispers, dazed.

 _Doesn't matter,_ Wrench answers before he puts the key in the ignition and fires up the car.

The road is endless. Trying to stay awake is a difficult task, Numbers' eyelids having seemingly turned to lead. Wrench looks over at him every two minutes or so, smacking him on the thigh every time he starts slipping into unconsciousness.

 _Talk_ , he orders with his right hand, his left in a white-knuckled grip around the steering wheel.

Numbers tries to find trivial things to talk about, but all he can really think about right now is how much his chest hurts and how absolutely terrified he is of dying.

"I've killed so many people, you know," he starts. "And I don't believe in God or nothing, but I'm still scared that maybe, maybe it's all true... and if it is, I know which direction they'll send my sorry ass."

He knows Wrench can't catch any of what he's saying, can't see his mouth in the rearview mirror, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Numbers takes the opportunity to speak his fevered mind.

"I'm scared for you, too," he confesses. "I made a promise to myself that I'd look out for you. That's why we can't... we _can't_. It's not just about self preservation. I mean I want you, sure, but more than that, I want you _alive_. I know you're terrified of loss, too, that's fucking obvious... so you should really be able to see where I'm coming from. You know?"

Numbers shifts in his seat, fighting to stay awake.

"I'm willing to, uh... to just settle for less, to pine like a fucking teenager and fuck creepy strangers, pretending they're you. For as long as it takes. So long it means you'll be safe, that you'll still be here."

Wrench checks on him again, and now he has a strange look on his face. For a few brief seconds, Numbers thinks his partner has by some miracle regained his hearing and had actually heard him.

When Wrench turns his attention back to the road, Numbers finds his courage again.

"I love you," he says with a sigh, relieved to be able to vocalize it without the threat of confrontation. If Wrench knew, that stubborn son of a bitch, he would never let him hear the end of it.

"I love you," he repeats, again and again and again, until he finally drifts off.

\---

When Numbers wakes, he doesn't recognize the room nor the bed, nor can he remember what happened after he got shot. _Did I pass out?_ For a second he thinks he's dead, surprised to find that they've got soft, warm beds in Hell.

A figure appears in the corner of his eye and he flinches, sending a shockwave of pain through his chest.

 _Careful with your stitches, idiot,_ Wrench signs. _I don't want to take you back to that doctor. He's overpriced._

"Where am I?" Numbers asks, trying to sit up.

_My place._

_Well, well... Wrench's apartment,_ he thinks as he takes in his garish surroundings. _Figures._

As he had always envisioned, it's a run-down, wood paneled, wall-to-wall carpeted affair. The bed sheets are old and tatty, adorned with tiny pink flowers. Salvation Army, probably. The only light source is the window; a tiny sliver of sunlight peeks through the curtains, illuminating the numerous dust particles floating about the room. _This place probably hasn't seen a mop since they put up the paneling._ Numbers wants to laugh, but right now that would hurt like hell. _What a dump._

_Is this the first time you've been shot?_

"No. Why?"

 _Just came off that way,_ Wrench replies with a shrug.

"Yeah, well, this is as close to my heart a bullet has ever gotten." Numbers swallows, his mouth dry as a desert. "Thanks, by the way. I owe you one."

Wrench doesn't say anything, just hands him a glass of water from the nightstand. Numbers drinks it all in one go.

"So, I almost died," he says, taking his time with each syllable to make sure nothing gets lost in translation. He would sign, but he can't move his left arm much. "Maybe this is a good time to tell me why you've been acting so weird?"

I've _been acting weird?_ Wrench signs with an incredulous look on his face. _You're the one who has been running hot and cold this whole time, pushing and pulling like you're some goddamn pick-up artist._

"Now, that right there," Numbers says, wagging his finger at him, "is the pot calling the kettle black."

Wrench doesn't even try to argue, he just scowls at him.

"You wanna know what I think?" Numbers says, ignoring his partner's eye-roll. "I think you were scared. And I get that. I'm scared too, you know..."

 _What's with the tattoo?_ Wrench signs, changing the subject. _You didn't have that before._

"Tattoo?"

Wrench points to the delicate script crawling across Numbers' collarbone, some of it covered by the gauze.  _Boundaries? Really?_

"Oh," Numbers says, peering down at it.

_It's an insult._

_It's not meant to be,_ he signs with his one mobile hand.

 _What is it meant to be, then?_ Wrench asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

Numbers isn't quite sure how to respond. He'd gotten it done a few weeks back, after he'd woken up with a hangover and remembered how he'd nearly lost his resolve and considered texting Wrench to come over and fuck his brains out.

 _A reminder,_ Numbers signs. _For myself._

_About what?_

_That I can't have you._

Wrench's eyes seem to soften at that. He looks sad, almost.

 _You can if you want to,_ he signs, moving to sit beside him on the bed. _We can be careful. We were careful in prison, and that worked out just fine._

"This isn't prison," Numbers sighs, shaking his head. "And Fargo isn't Babe. They might actually kill us. The stakes are higher this time."

 _Fuck the stakes,_ Wrench signs before running his hand through Number's hair and leaning in to kiss him.

"No, c'mon" Numbers starts, putting his palm against his partner's chest. "We gotta be prof-"

The rest of that sentence is cut off, muffled by his partner's lips against his own. Wrench is not having it today. Numbers struggles for a little bit, but he's far too tired to fight it and eventually he relaxes, eyelids fluttering shut. It's just too goddamn _nice_.

 _You almost died,_ Wrench tells him when he finally comes up for air. _I don't know about you, but if I'm going to get killed I want to die_ happy _, at least._

Numbers nods. He can't argue with that logic.


End file.
